


Moments

by AnonymousSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASiP, Gen, if you want to see it that way - Freeform, mentions of war and violence, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSong/pseuds/AnonymousSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were moments, John believed, where it was possible to feel one’s life changing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments

**Author's Note:**

> I just found this in my documents, having completely forgotten about it. Whoops. A little exercise in writing John, who is really difficult for me to write. No plans at the moment to continue this, but perhaps one day, once I'm done writing the other 37 stories in my head.

There were moments, John believed, where it was possible to feel one’s life changing. He had felt it when his father had died, when he had held his diploma in hand, the first step he had taken on foreign soil as a soldier, and when the bullet had ripped through his shoulder. It was those moments that, when he looked back, he could clearly see that, had that event not happened… Well, he wouldn’t be the John Watson that he was.

Ex-army doctor.

Well – ex-doctor, too, judging by the bloody tremor in his hand that shook from the weight of the silence around him. In exchange for the new stillness in his life, his hand shook.

They said it was from fear, from memories of the war - haunting him.

John didn’t quite like to admit it to himself, but he knew that that diagnosis was utter bollocks. His hand didn’t shake from _fear_. It shook from _need_. Like a drug addict reaching for their next hit, he was reaching for the spike in his heartbeat, for the burn of working muscles, the gasping breaths of pushed-to-their-limit lungs. God, what he wouldn’t give to _run_ , to _live_ , to have the chance to walk up to Death and spit in his face.

As if in reminder, John’s leg let out a spasm of pain. The grip he had on his blasted cane tightened and he pulled a deep breath in through his nose. His lips were pressed thin, his eyes hard, but no one noticed that there was pain racking through his body.

Good. He didn’t need - didn’t want - any more bloody pity.

“John! John Watson!”

Christ, what was this then?

Memories poured back into him when Mike introduced himself. John remembered the young, bright-eyed boy that used to be friends with the man in front of him - the one whose biggest scar had been from a rough game of rugby and had dreamed of being a hero.

“I got shot,” he explained to his possibly-still-a-friend.

It’s the simplest way to describe what happened. He doesn’t want to explain how different he was – and when Mike mentioned the person he once was, John practically snarled – or how damaged he’d become. The tremor in his hand began to shake the fractures in him a bit more. He wondered how long it would take for him to fall to pieces.

“Come on - who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Most people tended to stay away from chaps who shouted themselves awake, who lived just waiting, wanting the sound of gunfire to rip through the silence, and who kept their gun cleaner than anything else they owned.

It was worth a shot, though - going to meet whomever else believed their self to be non-flatmateable. Anyhow, what was there to lose?

\---

“Bit different from my day.”

The lab was bright, with eye-catching spots of colour. His eye gravitated to the largest collection of colour in the room – a man, pipette in hand. John realized that despite the man’s dark hair and clothes, his skin was so pale that it seemed to blend in with the stark walls.

John found that he was staring and quickly followed up on the conversation. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Er, here. Use mine.”

“Oh. Thank you,” said the deep baritone. He stood and John found that he had to look quite a few inches up. Christ, how tall was this bloke? He got closer and – wasn’t that odd; his eyes looked silver.

The man took John’s phone and quickly set about sending a text. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he questioned in a distracted manner.

John was sure his jaw went a bit numb for a moment before he looked at Mike in confusion. His friend just grinned, as if enjoying some show.

“Afghanistan,” John answered, looking back at the tall man with his phone. “How did you know…?”

The door opened and a girl came in, holding a cup of coffee out to the dark-haired bloke. His phone was handed back to him and John felt the urge to check to see what was sent.

John lost track of the conversation between the girl, Molly, and the taller man. He gripped the phone in his hands, standing evenly on both feet without having realized this.

There was a beat of silence in the room which snapped John’s thoughts back around. He looked to where Molly was leaving, then to Mike, who was watching him expectedly. Something had been asked of him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” the man explained. “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” His silver eyes came ‘round and found John’s. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

A smile – a very false smile, even John could see – was thrown his way, before the ex-army doctor looked to Mike.

“Oh, you… you told him about me?” That explained the question about Afghanistan earlier.

“Not a word,” Mike confessed, still with that smug smile.

All right, perhaps it didn’t explain the question after all.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John asked, looking back in time to see the taller man shrug a coat on. He had never described a coat as dramatic before but there seemed no other word for the object.

“I did,” the man continued. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan - wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

It was all spun out as if it were simple facts that _surely_ were clear and easy to read.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?” John questioned, voicing what he knew was going to scrape him raw unless he hear the answer.

Of course the bloke ignored the question and whipped a scarf around his neck. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it.” He walked past John. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

He was at the door, clearly about to head out when John felt it.

“Is that it?” he asked aloud, possibly to himself.

The man turned back, strolling casually a little closer. “Is that what?”

It’d never hit like this. It had always come at moments where John can clearly tell that his life was about to change – came at moments when he could very clearly see the separate paths in front of him, had worked hard to get there. Now, he was torn; disappointed that it was so subtle while being completely fascinated that it was _so subtle_.

“We’ve only just met we’re gonna go look at a flat?” _You’re going to become a changing point – I can feel this as a Moment - and it’s just that; less than a hundred words between us and yet…?_

“Problem?”

John couldn’t help the smile of disbelief that spread across his face and he glanced at Mike, as if to ask for help; what kind of madman has he been introduced to? Mike continued to be smug.

“We don’t know a thing about each other,” John nearly laughed. “I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.” _And yet…_

The look that swept over him felt like he was put through a scanner, felt like he was being printed out onto transparent paper.

That deep baritone began rattling off as if he spoke the language of transparency and could see every line written in front of him. The man seemed to know everything and, _god_ , it was absolutely _fascinating_. 

And then he was gone, with a wink and a name still hanging in the air. It fit itself into John’s mouth and he found that _Sherlock Holmes_ rolled off his tongue quite nicely; as if he were always meant to say it.

John felt like he was standing on the edge of something – something very much like a cliff that he couldn’t see the bottom to. 

_I could turn away now_ , he thought. _Forget I even met him._

A spasm of pain shot up his leg.

Then again, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad – falling over the cliff-side. He reckoned it would be very much like flying, for a while at least.


End file.
